A Dream of You
by Ambigram
Summary: Alistair has many dreams. Loosely inspired by one of Aimo's delightful fan comics.


Elissa isn't sure what she'll find when she enters Alistair's dream, but she can guess. She's heard his voice when he talks about Eamon. Duncan. His mysterious sister in Denerim.

She only wonders how it will manifest. Will she find him seated at Redcliffe's high table, an honored son of Eamon's household? In Denerim's royal palace, sparring with a laughing Cailan under Maric's fond eyes? For all his claims not to want it, will she find him clad in the golden armor of the King — respected, valued, _heard_?

She wouldn't blame him. She knows how it feels.

Or perhaps she'll find Duncan alive again, and Alistair's brother Wardens surrounding him. Goldanna, setting him a simple plate at supper with her children. A hearth and a home and a family. All the dreams of a discarded, bastard Chantry boy looking for his place.

She wishes she didn't have to intrude.

She only hopes he'll recognize her. She's still shaken to think of Leliana's blank eyes — _I don't know this woman, Revered Mother_ — and Wynne's horrified gaze locked on the bodies of her apprentices. She understands what it is to long for escape, but . . .

Her own dream still surprises her. In retrospect, she would've expected to see her parents alive, Fergus happily wed, Highever intact, her life restored. Finding herself a sister among the Wardens was . . . startling. She'd joined out of necessity, but in better times — with Highever standing and her family proud of her choices — the Wardens might have been the answer to the questions she had been asking herself all her life.

Maybe she's changed more than she realizes.

But the Fade is making her melancholy. She shakes her head to clear it, and steps through the portal.

As the dream coalesces around her, Elissa stops abruptly and turns her back. She will _not_ blush. She is a grown woman and a Cousland and she _will not_.

It takes her a moment, however.

She supposes she shouldn't be surprised. He's told her himself that he's never been with a woman — of course that's got to be a point of _interest_ for him, though she's surprised it's his _heart's desire_, for Andraste's sake. And oh, _Maker_, she's going to have to be the one to wake him out of it. He's not going to be able to look at her for a week without turning red. He's going to trip over his own feet if she so much as speaks to him, and knowing Alistair he'll do it just as Darkspawn decide to rush them from the treeline and be the death of them all.

Maker.

Still. Business is business. She turns around.

He's kneeling on the grass under a bright blue sky, naked. His partner is nestled between his legs, one hand resting on his thigh, the other brushing his chest. They make a pretty picture, all soft skin and smooth muscles. The way he's kissing her is almost reverent; his hands are brushing her hair feather-lightly as he cups her chin in both hands.

Elissa can hear her murmuring "I love you, I love you" between kisses. The voice niggles at her memory, but she can't quite place it.

She has time enough to reflect that this has got to be the tamest erotic dream she's ever encountered — how sheltered _was_ he? — and then she's close enough to identify his partner. Who, to all appearances, seems to be Elissa herself.

Her breath catches in her throat.

She steps closer.

Is this how he sees her? An object of worship?

Her doppelganger is _beautiful_. Lithe limbs, soft hair, a teasing mouth, and in her eyes — do they truly shine that way when she looks at him, or is that part of the dream? Alistair is certainly gazing back with tenderness enough to make her believe it could be real.

It makes no sense. Elissa knows she's attractive, certainly, but she's never tried to fool herself into thinking that her personal charms outweighed the appeal of her title. She is the only daughter of the Teyrn of Highever, born to wealth and influence, trained for political power. A bargaining chip from the day she was born, though her parents did her the courtesy of allowing her to choose the husband who would become her prison. Which was an unfair thought — she loved being a Cousland, reveled in the subtle manipulations of the court, and a husband was part of that game. But Teyrn Cousland's Daughter was never _all_ she was.

The woman in Alistair's arms now is not a Teyrn's daughter at all. She's simply Elissa. The Warden.

Look, there are the scars to prove it. Fine white lines all up and down her arms from years of sparring with her daggers. The jagged line across her midsection where Ser Gilmore's blade had caught her when she slipped on ice one morning in the practice yard. The shiny mottled patch on her calf where Dog had accidentally bitten her when she was tussling with Fergus and he decided to join in the fray. Every scar in its place, every mark she carried through her training. Every wound that had pulled and ached as she remembered to _stand straight, Elissa, shoulders back_ in the presence of the nobility. The telltale scars she had to bind up and hide beneath the flowing robes of Lady Cousland are there in perfect detail on her double.

He's even noticed the scar that curves around her upper right thigh, the one that usually vanishes into her skirt. She smirks. _Someone_ has obviously been enjoying walking at her back, and she's absurdly flattered, but it strikes her suddenly —

This is Alistair's dream: Herself. _Exactly as she is_. And his to love.

A jolt of _something_ shoots through her chest, something fleeting and impossibly sweet, and against her will tears spring to her eyes.

She needs a moment, just a _moment_ — but he's reached up to capture her hand. He's looking at her now, not at the doppelganger, who has settled back on the ground and seems to be watching them both. His eyes are misty and confused; he seems puzzled by the tears. For a moment she worries that he'll snap out of the dream.

_Not yet. Please._

Instead, he uncurls her fingers and presses a kiss to the middle of her palm, as though it will solve all the problems in the world.

Curse the man. _Curse_ him. No one could really be that sweet.

He draws her down beside him and wipes her cheek, then returns his hands to his knees. He's looking back and forth between her and the doppelganger, eyebrows drawn together, mildly perplexed. Not expecting a second Elissa to turn up, she supposes. But he doesn't look upset, exactly. After a moment, he smiles and relaxes back onto his heels. The dream continues around them.

Maker, how did they _get_ here?

Not the dream; she remembers Connor at Redcliffe and the devastation of the Tower and their trip into the Fade (sort of). She's just not sure how she came to be sitting across from this impossible man who — _be honest with yourself, Elissa_ — who she's fallen for in spite of her better judgment. This ex-Templar Warden with his clumsy flirtations and his roses and his _total earnest belief in her_ that is so devastating. This bastard prince who must _know_ deep down that he's going to have to claim his birthright one day, but who is trying so desperately to give himself to her in the meantime.

She shrugs off the first tug she feels on her armor.

It's simply not _fair_. She's a Cousland; her family fought for a hundred years to keep his bloodline on the throne. She knows, even if he doesn't, how important it is to Ferelden that he take up his duty. She can't — she can't expect him to give it up for her, and yet she knows that if he becomes king —

She absently adjusts her position as the hands at her back fiddle with the tricky clasp by her shoulder blade; Leliana usually handles that one for her.

— he'll resent her for pushing him to it. As though she could make any other choice. Though if it were only a matter of blood, it would be so much _simpler_. In truth, she thinks he'll make a _magnificent_ king. He's not the type to rule at a distance; he cares for people — even the people who've hurt him, the ones Elissa would gladly spit and roast — and he's artless enough to present himself with a sincerity that most nobles have trained out of them in childhood. Court is going to chew him up and spit him out, and Maker help her, she doesn't want that hopeful look in his eyes to change.

He _looks_ every bit the king, at least — a fact that she's in a unique position to appreciate. Here in front of her, he's all broad chest, firm arms, and impossibly long legs. She can see the fine sheen of sweat across his muscles as he sits contentedly under the sun. She moistens her lower lip.

In fact, he's beginning to look, ah . . . rather pleased about something.

When she feels cool air against her skin, it's not difficult to figure out what that something is. The doppelganger has removed her leathers and deposited them on the grass. Its eyes are heated as it looks her over. Strange to think it's actually a demon; it's certainly her own face leaning in to trail a line of kisses up her arm. It seems he's found a way to turn his sudden windfall of Elissas to his advantage.

The thought makes her laugh aloud, until she catches sight of Alistair's face. Alistair is not laughing at all. His lips are parted and forming silent words — is he whispering the _Chant_? — and the distant, misty look is gone from his eyes. She has his complete attention. Both of her.

She watches his face as she runs an experimental finger along the demon's collarbone. His eyes follow it like it's tracing a path to water in a desert.

How _very_ interesting. It seems her sweet Chantry boy isn't quite so innocent as he pretends.

Well, and who is?

He notices her watching and flicks his eyes away, but they're back on her almost immediately, a look of furtive guilt combined with utter fascination. He's cupping himself now, and she grins when she sees what she has to look forward to.

Her eyes hold his as she slides an arm around the demon's waist and kisses her own soft lips. She can see his pulse speed up where it jumps against his throat, and his eyes dilate. He reaches out to touch them, but his hand stops halfway there.

And part of her is arguing that she can't let herself do this, that she's going to break both their hearts if she doesn't keep some sort of distance, but a louder part is saying _Maker's breath, Elissa, can you not stop _thinking_ for five minutes of your life and enjoy the moment_ and this is a _dream_, and can she not allow him his _dream_?

A third part of her mind realizes that this may make the demon stronger, but Elissa Cousland hasn't yet met the demon she can't destroy.

It's the only time she'll be able to give him a gift quite like this one, after all.

She twines an arm around his neck and draws him down to join them.


End file.
